Never Born
by Pastel Ink
Summary: An experiment of a drabble, really. What would have been, what could have been, but what was never


* * *

Their child would be a boy. His hair would be dark, navy, midnight blue, and would always shine gold in specks, like stars, like clouds. His eyes would be spiraled, would be flowered, would be vibrant and beautiful green, blue, pink, grassy field, sky and garden.

Of course, he would take after both his parents. He would be kind, but confident, with a penchant for rambling near-incoherently, spewing idle thoughts like a river without control. Despite being a year younger than Anne, he would care for her as they grew up together - he would play with her and teach her the things he discovered. Because, after all, what a boy does best is adventure and discover.

Anne would come to love him, and he would her. But like teenagers do, both would remain silent on the matter. He would laugh mischief as he led her through the newly discovered alleyways, tugging her wrist gently with one hand while the other pulled a hood to cover his famous parents' hair, it's shadow concealing his eyes. The girl would laugh back, and follow him, and not complain that his enthusiasm bruised her wrist, or that her parents scolded her for being out late and not calling.

They would find a place, a small warehouse tucked away where no one ever goes. They would play there, and grow there, always together. Anne would be polite and gentle, the way her parents have taught her to be, but the two would develop the rebellious streak that all teens get.

Some days they would just build card-houses. Some days they would play board games. Some days they would play video games - auntie or uncle, depending on who you asked, always had the best toys. Other times they would just sit and talk, somehow comfortable in the vast, empty room with no lights. Although this would be fine, they'd eventually decide to do some interior decorating. Anne would squeal, the boy would just smirk; they walk to the store together to buy supplies.

The windows would be murky at best, high above and out of reach, and Anne would remark, sounding mildly distressed, "We can't really borrow a ladder that high from either of our houses…" She'd add, "And I'm out of money after we bought that couch." (It would be the cheapest one they could find, of course. A ratty old thing, picked up at a thrift store, with a hideous pattern and worn-out cushions. But the two would become fond of it.)

So they would try to reach the windows themselves. First it would be Anne on the boy's shoulders, but he would tease her about her weight and her butt, so she'd refused to stay up for long. A shame, the boy would think, and eye her too-short skirt and grin to dismiss it when she questioned the look suspiciously. Either way, this would not get them high enough by a long-shot.

So as a second attempt, they would not only switch their roles, but make a pile for Anne to stand on. Not their most brilliant plan, of course, but they wouldn't linger on it enough to realize. So it would be him on her shoulders, and her on a pile of books on a couch on a table on three layers of flattened cardboard boxes. Again: Not their best plan. She would tease him about his weight in return, though saying he was too light, too thin, and not muscular enough for her tastes. Although, of course, she would be lying.

But he would shift about on her shoulders, not even _trying_ to get to the window, and laugh while she struggled to keep him up. They would forget about the pile until it all tumbled down, them along with it.

When his broken arm had finished healing enough to get away from his mothers doting, and perhaps with a bit of help sneaking out from his father, the boy would go back with Anne. (Her parents would give him suspicious looks, her father looking concerned, while her mother regarded the boy with almost _knowing_ eyes that would suddenly make him very self conscious, and wonder if Anne already knew how much he liked her.)

They would look up at the one clean spot on the window: a streak of a hand-print, and laugh. They would sit on the old ratty couch together, would throw their school bags on the table, or sometimes on one another. Sometimes things would be quiet, other times lively. Every so often one would go out with other friends, and the other would inevitably sit in the warehouse all day, pouting and sulking.

After Anne being gone for two weeks straight, the boy would regard her bitterly on her arrival. Dust would be in the air, floating around, glittering in the little rays of light that managed to make their way through the window smudges and holes in the wall. As she sat next to him to console him, he would take notice of her new clothes, the way they hugged her curves and brought out her eyes. He would wonder… _Are boys supposed to notice that kind of thing?_ and he would pointedly not comment on it.

His cheeks would flush red, more red than Anne would have ever seen them before. Because the boy would usually be so confident, lingering traits his parents bestowed upon him, and all the praise of family friends had ingrained. Suddenly, nervous, he would choke on his words, averting his eyes, and manage, barely, "You know, I…"

He wouldn't finish his thought, despite Anne's expectant stare, and would eventually settle for reaching out for her hand. She would squeeze, he would squeeze back, and they would know. They would be awkward for days, mostly from the teasing from class-mates. But alone, together, they would be calm, and confident in each other and their relationship.

It would be weeks before they mustered the courage to kiss for the first time. Anne would be excitable, and would try constantly, but in times like this the boy's shy side would always come out stronger than ever. He would flush and dodge and make excuses whenever Anne tried, until she got annoyed and grabbed his sweater, tugging him into a kiss without permission.

Things would move faster after that, like they often do with teenagers. It would only take until the end of that same night for him to be accustomed to kissing her. And often. And everywhere. Another week would find him above her, kissing her neck as she arched her hips up into his, grinding lightly against the bulge in his pants. Another week and she'd sit on his lap, the two of them entangled, sprawled across the couch. His fingers would press inside her delicately, experimentally, and she would awkwardly try to tell him what felt best while hiding her face in the crook of his neck.

Their first time would be on that couch, and months later the table would never be used for eating off of again without giggling.

They would hold hands in their graduation photos, despite the photographers demand for single-person photos. They would exchange pretend-vows at a pretend-marriage in the summer, both only half-joking. Neither would be able to afford a ring, of course, but the boy would begin to do paperwork for his father. Anne would begin to follow her father to work, and would prove to be surprisingly strong and capable of such physical hard labor.

Slowly, they would stop going to the warehouse. They would both _forget _and _not forget _it's existence. But they would begin saving, begin working towards their marriage. When it came up, the boy, now a man, would still boyishly pretend he was not such a romantic. But he would be, of course, just like his father, and Anne would know this as she kissed him on the nose just to see him blush.

But the boy is never born. Nia is not alive long enough to know that she is pregnant at all. She is sick two mornings before the wedding, but dismisses it as stress, as sadness, as her body giving out. Simon agrees to these theories, holds her hair back until she is better, and helps her into a shower.

So there is no boy, with starry-sky hair and dizzy, blooming garden eyes.

There is just a girl named Anne, and when she wanders the streets she does not feel a sense of longing for what is lost, because nothing has been lost. Just as nothing has been gained when she discovers an empty warehouse. Upon peeking into the door, her first thoughts are not about how fun it might be to play here together, but instead about how empty and lonely such a down-trodden place looks, and how perhaps she should head home for supper and explore somewhere new tomorrow. This cold, dark place is not worth returning to.

* * *

If I had to choose something to put all my faith in, perhaps the reflection of flowers in your eyes?


End file.
